This, coupled with the annotation beneathThe Massacre of Kaolonmentioning the use of “thanatological abilities,” substantiated Roy’s suspicions. The Old Ones were linked to thanatology, the study of—and, apparently, the power of—death. It was typically regarded as a scientific notion, and many philosophers of the old world had debated its concepts: the direction of life’s beginning in relation to its end; the afterlife; and even, Roy thought with a shudder, which parts of the brain were completely, partially, and not at all responsive in the moments preceding and immediately after death.
“By the Scribes,” Roy whispered.
Percival looked up, read the expression on Roy’s face, and then set his quill down. “What’s the matter? Did you find something?”
Roy took one last look at the painting, then handed it to Percival, whose breath shook as he flicked his gaze hurriedly over the scene as though not sure what to look at first. “Thanatology?”
“There’s something about these swords, Percival,” Roy said. “I understand we’ve been putting it off in search of answers, but it seems to me that there’s no better answer than what we have with us right now.”
Percival eventually pulled his gaze fromThe Massacre of Kaolonand observed the swords. “Wedidfeel some sort of power in them. A wrongness.” He dwelt upon this for a second, then stood, twisting his back. “All right, let’s have a closer look at them. I suppose we should have a break anyway; it’s been almost eight hours.” He slipped into his overcoat, which he’d hung on the back of his chair, and headed toward the doorway he’d cleared for Roy.
“We’re not going to do it here?” Roy inquired.
“I need to move around; my limbs are stiff,” Percival explained, retrieving the sword with the skeleton-shaped hilt from beside his desk. “Besides, there’s something else I’ve been meaning to show you.” Roy went to get his own sword, but Percival shook his head. “We’ll just experiment with the one. I haven’t a clue what these weapons do, but the power in them...”
Again, Roy shuddered. “You might have a point.”
Percival tugged on Roy’s arm. “Come on, this way.”
He escorted Roy through the Observatory’s rear door, shutting it behind Roy as he went through, and into a long corridor. It yawned before them, the left wall and ceiling made from cobblestone. To their right was a sweeping bank of windows. Above the wall of snow pressed against the glass, which appeared to have decreased in the past few days, Roy tried to make out the soaring summits and flat rooftops of Northgard’s residential complexes, but there was only a howling white haze.
Regardless, from the diminished wall of snow, winter seemed to have loosened its leash on the land. For a moment Roy was heartened by this, but he had seen respites in the weather before. These never lasted more than a day or two, though, granting Northgard’s teeming, panic-stricken streets some time to recover from the previous prolonged blizzard before the next struck—usually harder than ever. It had been rumored for years, ever since the snowstorm had launched itself upon Northgard, that the weather was a sign of great danger, a harbinger of doom. Roy had been skeptical, but knowing what he knew now, he thought that these theories might hold more truth than he’d originally suspected.
“I’ll warn you,” Percival said as they approached a black door set at the very end of the narrow hallway, “you may soil yourself when you see this.” After a moment, he squeezed Roy’s arm, twisted the knob, and pushed the door open, standing aside.
Despite his lingering apprehension, Roy clapped a hand over his mouth, containing his shrill gasp.
Inside the room was a circle of seven monolithic sandstone pillars, which surrounded an enormous book perched on a black pedestal. A chandelier dangled from the ceiling, casting an ethereal nimbus of golden light upon the mounted book. Seven marble statues—four women, three men—stood between the pillars like the sentinels of a high divine order. Some had their heads bowed and their fingers interlaced, others their chins tipped up and their hands clasped at their back. Only one, the statue of the woman directly adjacent to Roy, had her stony gaze set on the displayed book.
The construction was encompassed overhead by low-railinged balconies. There, Roy imagined the bygone residents and tourists of the Orphic Basilica would have clamored for an uninhibited view of the statues, standing on their toes and peering over shoulders. He pictured children crying, begging for their parents and caretakers to hoist them up on their hips so they could get a better look. There was a black iron staircase, identical to those in the atrium of the library, which gave visitors access to the viewing platform. Written across the balcony at the back wall were the words:
THE MUSEUM OF THE ELDER SCRIBES
“It’s stunning, I know,” Percival said, his voice full of awe. “But you can explore another day.” He pointed to a door lurking in the shadow cast by the balcony on their left. “Let’s go here.”
Roy walked toward the door Percival had indicated, feeling like he was traipsing through a labyrinth, but the room they entered was simple enough: a mahogany desk, a bookshelf, and a harp perched atop a small podium beside a porthole window.
Percival released Roy’s arm and gripped the hilt of the sword with one hand and the scabbard with the other, but before he could do anything, Roy suddenly got cold feet. “Wait, what are you planning to do?”
“Unsheathe it?” Percival said. He sounded faintly sardonic, as though Roy had asked him some laughably obvious question. “What else did you think I was going to do?”
“I know, but—”
“You said it yourself—we’ve been stalling long enough. It’s time to dig deeper, like we did in the crypt. There is a secret here, something big, and I hate the idea of not knowing what it might be, anddamnit, I know you do, too.” He placed a hand on the hilt of the sword.
Roy stepped forward. “Percival.”
“Let me,” Percival said.
“Percival,” Roy called out, a fraction louder, and when he received no reply: “Percival,stop! I know I suggested this, but... but you were the one who said there’s a wrongness about them. I agree—I can feel it, sense it.”
Percival ignored him and curled his fingers around the hilt of the sword, making a white-knuckled fist around the skeleton-shaped cross guard. He paled, his eyes wide and filled with dismay. “You’re right. I feel its power, Roy. This is just one of these damn things. Imaginetwo—and in the same room, no less.” His voice was unnaturally low, gravelly, and his features were frozen into a look of such dread that Roy couldn’t repress the shiver that went through him. “So... sovile,” Percival whispered.
“Don’t pull it out, then.”
“And do what? Contemplate it forever, never even looking at it? How does that make sense? How can you even call yourself a scholar if you’re afraid to encounter ideas you don’t like?”
“This isn’t some theory that rubs me wrong—”
